


Samson

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hair-pulling, M/M, Sam's Hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turn and turn about is fair hair-play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Balder12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/gifts).



> A late gift for balder12's birthday. She wanted Kevin playing with Sam's hair. Sam wanted to play with Kevin's hair. Things got smutty. Takes place at some vague future time. Kevin is no longer dead.

“I’m thinking of growing my hair out,” Kevin announces. Not that he’s planning to have an open and honest conversation about this, exactly, because of all the things he’s felt around Sam, terrified, impressed, furiously resentful, unrequitedly lustful and, sometimes, lately, happy and even smug, of all the things he’s repressed or confessed to, he’s not about to start in on how he’s sometimes envious of Sam’s hair. 

He went along on a couple of hunts this past summer, mostly to notify Dean and Sam that they can’t just decide that he stays home. And it went pretty well and now that Kevin’s got his point across he’s not feeling the need to make it a habit. Let Sam and Dean have the job to themselves, their deeply significant car and zany motel decors, tedious in-jokes and in-fights and boundary-crossing first aid. Kevin figures that if this thing with Sam is going to work it’s only going to be if Sam and Dean have space — like, a few light-years — to be weird about each other in without Kevin getting involved. So he’ll stay home with his coursework, or visit Mom. It’s not like hunting’s a fun hobby. But he will miss the way Sam’s hair whips around when he’s fighting. It’s Kevin’s guilty pleasure. He plans to get round to the guilt part any day now.

Sam reaches up reflexively to stroke the short spikes behind Kevin’s ear. They’re in Sam’s bed. One lamp is on, turned low. Sam’s chest is a generous, subtle topography, faint gleams of sweat and intriguing shadow, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone and gathering where the sheet’s drawn up to his waist. Kevin’s guessing that bringing up the hair thing has postponed the moment when he gets to do something with all that, because Sam’s creased his forehead into elaborate furrows. Kevin wanting to change his hair is clearly a topic of concern. OK, maybe there are issues.

“You used to wear it longer,” Sam says, “I remember. You cut it short after you, uh. Shorter than now, even.” 

One of the sharpest memories Kevin has of that time is the buzz of the clipper. Crowley had even had a barber’s chair (Kevin’s wrists tied to the arms, sweat pooling between the vinyl and the small of his back, trays of scissors in front of him that might or might not be for styling), a real live barber chair and one of those smocks. The smock served multiple functions.

“ _I_ didn’t,” says Kevin, “Crowley did. I didn’t want it back how it was before, after that.” 

He hadn’t wanted himself back like he was before, after that. Kevin Tran in Advanced Placement wouldn’t have outlived anyone. Sam would never have stepped back, held Dean back, to let Kevin Tran, Advanced Placement, be the one to stab Crowley. It’s an ambiguous prize, that culmination, but Kevin’s not about to pretend it isn’t meaningful. 

Sam’s fingers have stilled in his hair. Now they start moving again, carefully. “I see,” is all he says.

Sam never takes the bait (picks up the gauntlet) when it comes to that year. He has a point. A lot has happened since then. Kevin’s been dead since then. Kevin’s killed since then. And the more he lives with the daunting, absolute silences that are Sam not talking about Sam, the more Kevin suspects that not talking about Kevin is Sam’s idea of a courtesy. A stupid idea of a stupid courtesy. But something about its stupidity makes Kevin value it, makes him protective. They’re chinks in Sam’s armor, those stupid places. They’re part of what makes it possible for Kevin to be here now, to prop himself on his elbow, let his eyes take in all that chest, watch Sam’s eyes go darker as his fingers scritch over Kevin’s scalp. 

“You want to change it back now?” Sam asks. “Go pre-Crowley?”

“I don’t know,” says Kevin. He’s not really sure, after all. Surely revenge was sufficient catharsis without a new look. Maybe he just needed to bring up the subject. “Maybe. What do you think?”

“I like it this way,” says Sam, “it’s fuzzy.” 

Kevin inspects Sam’s expression. He doesn’t want to be some kitten Sam pets. But Sam’s face is serene, not doting, midway between zen and turned on. It’s a good look on him. And the feeling of Sam’s long fingers brushing over the nape of his neck, standing up the short hairs and smoothing them down, that’s good, too, a buzz of sensuous static. It makes Kevin want to stretch and flex in the sun, not like a kitten, like a cat. A big cat. Sharp teeth and claws and muscle under his fur. He ducks his head to nip at Sam’s collarbone. Sam’s palm splays and grips the back of Kevin’s head, pulling him in. His other hand slides down, past the dip of Kevin’s spine, between the cheeks of his ass, stroking. Kevin has the script down by now. He fumbles over the bedside table for the lube.

Sam’s a magnificent sight, really, when Kevin rides him. Some of the subtlety of the planes of his chest gets lost, true, with the sheen of sweat thickened to distinct drops, with the strong, human smell of exertion, but the movement as Sam’s ribs rise and fall makes up for that. And Kevin’s hands are free to sweep across the breadth of Sam’s pecs, to brush his nipples, clutch at Sam’s upper arms and hold on. He’s lifted, supported as Sam drives into him, firmly handled down the steep slope to orgasm. He’s had and he has. This is what it’s meant to be, right? It’s a thing he’s attained, like revenge, another prize.

Any prize is ambivalent. This one is an ongoing ambivalence. It’s not like the gut-deep memory of burying the borrowed demon-knife in Crowley’s brainstem, watching his slick, chubby salesman vessel twitch and pitch face-forward in the mud, it’s not like that has become simpler in retrospect. Ongoing isn’t worse. This, Sam fucking him, is certainly not worse. It’s the connections between the two that are potentially dangerous. Sam handing Kevin his revenge. Sam hesitantly, clumsily, inviting Kevin along to the bar a few weeks later. To teach him pool, Sam had said. Dean had been with them the first night, never afterwards. Dean’s better at pool than Sam, but Kevin thinks now that he was complicit from the beginning with why it was Sam, Sam explaining the rules of the game, Sam feigning drunk for the crowd and cutting Kevin off at his second beer, Sam withdrawing to his room every night for three weeks the second they got home, monosyllabically abrupt. 

It had been enlightening. Kevin had learned a lot. He can itemize, even: 1. Pool. He’s still a beginner, but he’s good. 2. Sam is a better actor than you’d think, than you’d know if you only saw him playing straight man to Dean’s riffs. 3. Sam can laugh. 4. Sam knows he’s scary but has no clue when he’s just plain unpleasant. 5. Sam can be monumentally unpleasant. 6. Sam’s hair falls forward when he’s lining up his shot. 7. The muscles of Sam’s forearms shift and flow mesmerizingly into the strong, broad bones of his wrists. 8. Sam cares, silently and elaborately, what killing Crowley might have done to Kevin. 9. Somewhere in Sam’s head Kevin joined a club, came of age, when he accepted the blade Sam handed him and drove it home. 10. Sam will never let himself connect 8 and 9. 

It’s the charge and darkness of that unacknowledgment that hardened Sam’s dick when he’d reached round Kevin to adjust his grip on the cue. It was that that made Kevin’s head swim like his beer was whisky (it took a lot of whisky, by then, to make Kevin’s head swim, but a pint would do it), that made him lean forward over the kelly-green felt so his ass pressed tighter against Sam. It was that live, unclosed circuit that made it inevitable, through all Sam’s contradictory maze of invitations and precautions, that one night Kevin would knock at his door and that Sam would let him in.

They’ve got here. Like a lot of the rooms in the bunker that Kevin dreams of there’s no way back. But unlike in Kevin’s dreams that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It can be good. It can be breathtakingly good.

Sam’s panting steadily, now, like he’s running all out. He’s a scientific runner. He could have done track, though he’d told Kevin once it was soccer he was into. It’s fascinating, watching his muscles bunch and release as he thrusts into Kevin, all that concentrated, benign strength. He knows just what he’s doing. Giving Kevin this, this deep, dragging burn, love bites on his neck, big, steadying hands on his ribcage, filling Kevin and guiding him home. Somewhere in there Sam’s a gentleman. And a nice guy, genuinely, and just a little complacent. Even when it’s Kevin riding him, Sam gets to be the gentleman.

Kevin leans forward. That shifts the angle a bit. It’s not in the script. But Kevin _is_ riding Sam, after all. The jockey is part of this scenario. Jockeys are scrawny and small, but tough. Deliberately, Kevin threads his fingers in Sam’s hair, both hands, Sam’s eyes are unfocused, not registering any objection. Kevin grips and pulls. Sam’s startled gasp jolts straight through Kevin’s dick. Sam’s hair is heavy, slippery, soft, but it cuts into Kevin’s hands where it’s wrapped around his fists. Kevin bends forward, all the way (the angle of Sam’s dick in him shifts again, breathy, excruciating pleasure, but Kevin’s got this, he’s not distracted), pressing down into a kiss. 

Sam’s hands have fallen off his ribcage. That’s OK. Kevin’s got this. He sits up straight again, perfect posture (that always helped keep his head clear when he was studying). He tugs at Sam’s hair, sharp, staccato twists, moves up and down, on Sam’s dick, legato, slow and smooth. Kevin was a cellist. Sam never played an instrument. Sam’s at a disadvantage. 

Sam’s never expected, Kevin thinks, that he could be the one caught off-guard, that there might be something to consider besides whether he’s taking advantage of Kevin. He doesn’t expect to find himself moaning and twisting, eyes crossing in an effort to watch when Kevin spares a hand for his own dick. He jerks himself off in a showy crescendo, comes in a triumphant splash, up Sam’s chest, in his face, soaking into the sweaty tangles of Sam’s hair where it’s wrapped around Kevin’s fingers. 

Sam’s eyes snap into focus, wide with astonishment. For a moment he goes absolutely still. Then he’s grunting, bucking, jerky, undignified thrusts, out of rhythm, pumping into Kevin’s ass, filling the condom. Kevin bears down and lets Sam ride out the last stuttering pulses. Sam’s shout rings in both their ears. Hell, Dean probably heard it, down the hall. Kevin may be embarrassed about that in the morning. Not as embarrassed as Sam, though. 

Kevin pulls off with a gross sucking sound. He rolls the condom off Sam’s softening dick and flicks it in the general direction of the wastebasket. Sam is slumped back bonelessly against the pillows. Kevin waits, ear pressed to Sam’s thudding heartbeats, while things simmer back down to cozy. Somewhere in the back of his head Crowley’s body is sprawled in the mud. But he’s fenced it off this time, achieved separation.

“Good?” he asks at last. He doesn’t have any doubt, really. He’s a lot happy, a little smug. Sam is smoothing his hair again.

“Yeah.” Sam sounds at once satisfied and surprised, the teacher whose apprentice has come into his own. Kevin thinks he’s got a handle on it, now, though, that incipient condescension. He can let Sam pet him. He can stretch like a cat in the sun. “Yeah,” Sam says again, “that was good. That was great.” 

That’s Sam, as well, someone who can be generous. His fingers stroke and stroke over Kevin’s hair. Kevin reaches up in turn, idly fiddling, then starting in on a braid.


End file.
